


The Last Good Thing

by Flames_and_Jade



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Best Friends, Cuddles, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, No Smut, Pining, Post-Break Up, a bit of depression, breakups suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: Patrick was going to stay there forever. He was going cry into his knees and live on the floor of that bathroom for the rest of his days—unloved, unwanted. Alone. Until Pete walked in...“I—I shouldn’t have come back. I shouldn’t have, if I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have found out—I’d still have her!” Sobs shook him again and Pete pulled him close, murmuring soft endearments and rubbing his back soothingly. He didn’t ask what was wrong, he didn’t tell him to be quiet. He simply let him cry…and cry Patrick did.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just a ball of angst, relationship blues, and depression tonight...and this is what came out. It's unbeta'd and might be horrible! But I realized how awesome it is to have a friend who will pull you out and take care of you, and I wanted to write that, because I think Pete and Patrick are amazing friends, and friends should be celebrated.

_Mostly round, with a slight irregularity on the right side._

 

The small place where the paint was scratched off was like an anchor that held Patrick’s eyes. Maybe if he kept staring at it, he wouldn’t cry again, he could finally stop shaking. 

 

Everything was _shaking_. His hands shook where he had them wrapped around his middle, his breath shook as he gasped trying to pull it into his lungs. His lip trembled as he tried to hold back the tears, his head was pounding behind his eyes like a drum stretched too tight. His muscles felt like they were guitar strings being plucked too tightly, held down by his bones and his agony.

 

_Mostly round, with a slight irregularity on the right side._

 

Memories echoed in his mind, vibrating like sound waves coming off a violin, echoing along the contours of his skull. The contempt in her eyes when she looked at him, the uncaring way she flipped her hair over her shoulder to let the nameless boy with the piercings and the tattoos push her skirt up as he bit into her shoulder. The way her body shuddered as his hands dipped between her legs and a look of ecstasy painted her face with its garish hues. The way her eyes had flicked down to the bouquet of roses he had brought her that had dropped from his hands in shock, and then a smirk had flitted across her parted lips. Like they were laughable. A joke of a bribe for her paltry affection.

 

_Mostly round, with a slight irregularity on the right side._

 

His phone buzzed and he looked down at it out of habit. The screen was lit up and his wallpaper stared back at him. _She_ stared back at him, smiling and beautiful and _false_. 

 

The tears came thundering through him like a torrent, the spot on the wall no longer enough to hold the agony at bay. Her beautiful face seemed to be seared behind his eyelids, a lie of a smile painting her lips and mocking him. His shoulders shook as he sobbed, his fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to leave small crescent-shaped pits that throbbed. Nothing throbbed like his heart, though—it beat out a tempo of brokenness, of loss, of betrayal, of malice. 

 

She could have just left. She could have just told him she was done, that it wasn’t working, that she had found someone else, and he would have accepted it. He wouldn’t have screamed, he wouldn’t have yelled or called her names. He would have let her go. But this? He had come home to their little apartment to find a lanky tattooed boy between his girlfriend’s legs on _their_ bed. _Theirs._ He wasn’t even supposed to be there—he was supposed to be out of town helping Travie produce his new album, but he had come home early to surprise her. He had picked up the roses on impulse on the way from the airport…she loved the way they made the apartment smell. His brain screamed at him that was probably why they were _fucking in his bed_ , because they hadn’t expected him home. If he had just stayed in Atlanta like he had said, he never would have caught them, they could still be together and happy, blissfully in love and lying about it. 

 

He had run out of there as fast as his legs could carry him, and come here. He knew where he kept the spare key, under the rock by the front door. A stupidly obvious place, if you really thought about it—why else would there be a random rock on someone’s porch? But he had barreled in, straight for the bathroom and puked his guts out into the toilet until he was shaky with shock and exhausted. Getting to his feet, he had stumbled to the sink and rinsed his mouth out before catching sight of himself in the mirror. 

 

Sweaty pale skin, blue eyes rimmed with red and filled with tears. Hair that was stuck to his skin in places where it stuck out from under his soft knit hat. Pudgy hips and a rounded stomach…nothing any woman would want. With a moan he sank to his knees and stared at the spot on the wall…

 

_Mostly round, with a slight irregularity on the right side._

 

He was going to stay there forever. He was going cry into his knees and live on the floor of that bathroom for the rest of his days—unloved, unwanted. Alone. 

 

“Patrick?” 

 

His head shot up at the sound of his own name. 

 

“P—Pete?” Sinking to his knees, Pete’s face filled his gaze—long bangs fringed red, glasses and a concerned look. “What are you doing here?”

 

A wry smile twisted Pete’s mouth. “Well, it’s kinda my house, dummy.” 

 

Patrick nodded, gulping for air as Pete stood and ran the water in the tap, and then returned to press a cool washcloth to Patrick’s face. He closed his eyes and let Pete take care of him—the soothing feeling of Pete’s hands and the coldness of the water making him feel just a tiny bit more like a person. “I know, I’m sorry, b—but you said you were going to be—“ He took a hiccuping breath. “—gone. For a week.” 

 

“Came back early.” Pete threw the washcloth into the tub and sat down in front of him, and he started to shake. 

 

“I—I shouldn’t have come back. I shouldn’t have, if I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have found out—I’d still have her!” Sobs shook him again and Pete pulled him close, murmuring soft endearments and rubbing his back soothingly. He didn’t ask what was wrong, he didn’t tell him to be quiet. He simply let him cry…and cry Patrick did.

 

But like all things in the world, tears were not endless. Eventually Patrick was left empty—an exhausted, wrung out and wrecked shell in Pete’s arms. He was shaking again, throat sore and eyes feeling like they were glued shut and filled with sand. Pete pushed a wad of toilet paper at his face, and Patrick took it and blew his nose as he pulled away, running a hand through his hair.

 

“I’m sorry, I—“

 

Pete shushed him. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” 

 

In a few words, Patrick told him. He had come home early to surprise her, and she was fucking someone in their bed. Pete’s eyes hardened as he listened, until he was gripping Patrick’s shoulders tightly in anger. 

 

“Do you want me to go murder her? I know Andy will help, and I’m sure Joe has like some crazy uncle that could grind her up into like sausage and then nobody would—“ Patrick shook his head tiredly, and Pete fell silent, considering his best friend. “Well…are you hungry?” Again, Patrick shook his head and chewed on his lip. 

  
“I should go, it’s late and I’m sure you’re tired, I’m sorry I—“ Pete shushed him, pulling him to his feet. 

 

“Shut the fuck up dude. If you won’t let me kill her, you have to let me take care of you.” Pulling Patrick out of the bathroom and ignoring his protests, Pete helped him out of his shoes and into a pair of his gym shorts and tucks him into bed. “I’ll be right back.” 

 

Patrick merely burrowed into the pillows, pulling the covers up over his head and wishing he could cocoon himself in like a chrysalis. Maybe he’d come out looking like someone she could love, someone she would want. Someone she wouldn’t cheat on. 

 

After what seemed like a small eternity full of self-recrimination and hatred, Patrick could feel Pete sit down on the side of the bed and pull the covers back. He considered holding them like a child and refusing to come out…but discarded the idea as taking too much effort. Pete was holding a bottle of gatorade out to him—orange, his favorite flavor—and giving him a concerned look that Patrick was pretty sure he’d given to Pete himself. 

 

“Drink some?” Sitting up, Patrick took the bottle and took a long sip. The liquid felt amazing on his raw throat, and he drank more. Pete rested a hand on his shoulder as he gulped it down, and then took the bottle back. “Better?” 

 

Patrick nodded, giving him what he hoped was a small, wobbly smile. Pete gave him his trademark wide grin, mouth stretching out over his teeth and making his eyes crinkle. 

 

“Good.” 

 

Kicking his own shoes off, he crawled over Patrick in an awkward tumble of elbows and knees and burrowed into bed with him. He wrapped his arms around the small, hunched form of his best friend and pulled him close. 

 

“You wanna watch _The Notebook_?”

 

Patrick scrunched his face up and looked over his shoulder. “Seriously? A chick-flick?”

 

Shrugging, Pete reached dover and grabbed the remote from the nightstand, smothering Patrick a bit as he flailed for it. “Well, I mean isn’t that what you do after a breakup? Watch _The Notebook_ or _You’ve Got Mail_ or something like that?” 

 

“Yeah and eat ice cream.”

 

“Fuck, I don’t think I have any. I could go get some for you, I’ll get you any flavor you want!” Pete wheedled, mind already spinning with all the ways he had heard you got over heartbreak. 

 

But Patrick shook his head. “I don’t want anything to eat.” He looked at Pete from the corner of his eye. “Can we watch _Food Network?”_

 

Sighing a dramatic sigh, Pete clicked on the TV. “Only because I love you and you’re clearly in a vulnerable place.” He found the channel, and the high-pitched voice of Giada cut through the silence explaining how to make cannoli or cannelloni or something like that. Patrick hummed appreciatively and Pete stuffed the remote under his pillow and pulled his best friend closer. 

 

When the episode was over, and Ina Garten’s grandmotherly face filled the screen, Patrick felt sleep pulling at him, the exhaustion from all the emotion finally catching up. Pete was wrapped around him like an octopus, like a weight that kept him grounded and safe. He grabbed Pete’s hand where it was resting over his stomach and pulled it up to his chest, nestling it close to his heart. 

 

“Thanks.” The words fell from his lips as he closed his eyes, allowing sleep to begin to pull him under its tides. “I’m lucky to have you.” Pete merely pulled him closer as he dipped below the waves. 

 

~//~

 

Pete gave it a full episode of _The Pioneer Woman_ —God that Ree Drummond was annoying!—after Patrick’s breath became soft and deep before he disentangled himself. He looked down at the peaceful form of his best friend, and the familiar vise tightened around his heart. 

 

Patrick’s nose was still a bit red, and Pete could see his eyes were still puffy from crying even in sleep. But his face was relaxed, lips slightly parted as he breathed. One of his hands was tucked under his chin and his lashes fanned out over his cheeks. His luscious curves were barely visible under the covers, and his chest was rising and falling at a steady tempo. He thought about the way Patrick had been shaking in his arms as he sobbed, the broken sound of his cries and the way he had clung to Pete, hands fisted in his shirt. Patrick’s small smile after he drank the gatorade—vulnerable and tentative but full of gratitude that seemed tentative, like he couldn’t believe he was receiving it. 

 

He was going to kill that bitch.

 

There was nothing he wanted more than what she had—he’d give anything for the privilege she had so carelessly thrown away. To hold Patrick when he was sad, to wake up next to him every morning and go to sleep with him every night. He ached to kiss his perfect mouth, to brush his lips over every inch of that porcelain skin. He wanted Patrick to reach for him when he was scared during a horror movie, he wanted to bring him soup and tissues and NyQuil when was sick. He wanted Patrick to yell at him for not replacing the toilet paper and to roll his eyes at his dumb jokes. He wanted the sleepy, adorable mess that Patrick was in the mornings, he wanted to be the one to give him a cup of coffee and nuzzle into his neck as he drank it and came to life.

 

But he would never push it. If Patrick never saw him as anything but his best friend, so be it. Pete just felt lucky to know him, to be in his life, and would never do anything to jeopardize that. God knows he wanted Patrick more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his life—but it was so different than he’d ever wanted anyone else. Every other time he felt even close to this attracted to someone, he would pursue them relentlessly, throwing himself at them with such tenacity that they would eventually give in. Then he’d take and take and take…but not this time. That’s how he knew this was something different, something bigger. He loved Patrick so much that he wouldn’t do anything to endanger their friendship…he was content to be in Patrick’s life in whatever manner he could, because that was a privilege. Did he want more—god yes. When Patrick would bite his lip when he was deep in thought, Pete had to take deep breaths and not think about taking that lush lip between his own teeth. But sometimes, when the light hit Patrick just right as he was staring out the window, making his skin look like ivory and his eyes the most luminous blue, Pete was pretty sure his best friend was an angel. He was the most beautiful thing Pete had ever seen, and there was no part of him that Pete didn’t think was perfect. 

 

For now, he was just thrilled that Patrick had come _here,_ that when he was broken and reeling…he came to Pete. He trusted Pete enough to gather up the pieces and put them back together, and that meant the world. Maybe someday Patrick would open his eyes and realize that through all the exes and drama and adventures…Pete had always been in love with him. Maybe he wouldn’t.

 

But no matter what, Pete would always be there.


End file.
